


Pub Fare

by OneEyedDestroyer



Series: Pub Fare [1]
Category: The Magicians (TV)
Genre: Alcohol, Bars and Pubs, Drinking, Eliot and Margo see a pretty boy and absolutely must have him, Eventual Smut, Flirting, Multi, Pre-Canon, Seduction
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-03-10
Updated: 2019-07-29
Packaged: 2019-11-14 17:49:40
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 10,935
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18057206
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/OneEyedDestroyer/pseuds/OneEyedDestroyer
Summary: On vacation in London, Eliot and Margo drop by an adorable little pub and find themselves craving way more than they bargained for.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I'm so excited to finally get this piece out there! I've been sitting on this idea for a while and I'm finally writing it. I've been wanting to write about the pub in London for a long time. The name alone is enough to want to explore it. As of right now, I don't have much written ahead, so no promises that I will update on as tight a schedule as I did for Head to Head, but I have the weekend off, so we'll see if that changes. Not everyone is super Keen™️ on OCs, but I hope you guys will give my guy a chance. I've had a ton of fun getting to know him. For those of you who read the interlude for HTH, you've already met him. This fic will eventually get smutty, but likely not until close to the end. 
> 
> Special thanks to [ **Sarah** ](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ohmarqueliot/pseuds/ohmarqueliot) and [ **Lex** ](https://archiveofourown.org/users/LexxxiHighThot) for stepping in when the usual Machete Squad was unavailable. You guys really came in clutch.

Thick clouds hang in the sky trapping the April sun behind their weight. The pitter patter of soft, spring rain on the stone sidewalk and the rumble of cars along wet pavement is a soothing soundtrack to their afternoon stroll. Eliot and Margo walk side by side, their hands intertwined around the wooden shaft of his umbrella as they hold it above their heads. The piece is absolutely stunning, one of a kind— hand-crafted by Francesco Maglia himself. It’s comprised of textured, black fabric panels and a dark mahogany shaft that eventually curves into a long-handled pipe, the bowl of which is carefully carved with intricate filigree. The pipe end is detachable and fully functional, but Eliot wouldn't dare. Bringing this beauty out into the rain is use enough. He’s wearing the coat with the blood red buttons to bring out the crimson undertones in the mahogany. Garnet and silver sparkle at Margo’s ears and neck, accented further by a deep ruby lipstick. Lucky for them, Francesco is a magician; the umbrella is enchanted so that as each drop of rain ricochets off the canopy, it adds another twinkle to the starry night sky shining just for them.    

 

“Brilliant,” Eliot sighs as the rain begins to pick up, creating a breathtaking array of shooting stars and constellations beneath their umbrella.

 

“I know we are,” Margo says with a laugh. The muted click of their feet on the wet pavement gradually slows as they reach their destination.

 

They stand at the door of an old building. Brown brick with aging wood trim painted a rich kelly green rise two stories above them. The gold lettering on the marquee puts a smile on both their faces; they wanted to seek out one of the more uniquely hidden pubs, but the name of this one is way too fucking good to pass up. Margo disentangles from Eliot, freeing his hands. Eliot pulls the umbrella closed and gives it a quick shake to get some of the rain off. A few stray stars fall to the ground with the discarded raindrops as the enchantment fizzles out.

 

Margo steps through the door, reaching a hand behind her back for Eliot to take. A quick tut behind her back with her other hand dries the rain that managed to catch them before they entered. Dim, amber light and the scent of savory food greet them in gorgeous contrast to the cold, drab day just outside the frosted glass windows. The rain has drawn a decent crowd of families, couples, and stray drunk or two but the vibe is still intimate and cozy. Cracked leather seats and centuries-old wood are just the feel they were hoping for.

 

Margo looks around the room for an empty table, spotting one right by the bar. They don’t intend to stay long, they honestly just want a story to embellish. What better way to entertain than, ‘Remember when we grabbed a pint at The Ball and Sack?’

 

With a louder than necessary flourish, Eliot slides out of his coat, swinging it dramatically off his shoulders as he sets it on the back of a chair. He runs his hands along his torso, smoothing out the creases in his ensemble. Margo unties her scarf and places it and her coat on the back of her chair. She pulls a few pounds from her clutch and they make their way to the bar.

 

The barkeep is filling a pint for another guest as they perch against the countertop. Well groomed and well dressed, the sandy-haired man looks up from his pour and greets them with a smile that is perfectly framed by his short, full beard. Plot twist; he’s absolutely stunning. The warm light hitting his bright green eyes nearly takes the wind out of Eliot. Holding up a single finger, he wordlessly informs them he’ll be free in just a moment. They nod in response, keeping it casual. They weren’t necessarily in a hurry before, but they suddenly don’t have any plans for the next hour that don’t involve trying to catch a moment with him. They watch him pour another pint from the tap, the muscles in his arm flex just enough to ripple the tattoos decorating his skin. A single blackbird flying an array of intricate symbols spiraling between his elbow and his wrist. The artwork is subtle but clearly magical to those who know what to look for. They’re intrigued. From the looks of it, he’s just a little older than they are, but not by much. They can barely make out what he’s saying, but a wide smile and conversational hand gestures suggest he’s passionate about the experience he’s creating for his guests. Exactly the kind of hipster trash they like.

 

Once the barkeep wraps up his little masterclass with the previous customer, he finally makes his way over. He wipes down the bartop and throws the towel over his shoulder with a smirk. Eliot and Margo exchange a glance, both rolling their eyes.

 

The barkeep cocks an eyebrow but quickly re-establishes his composure. “For you?” He asks in a soft brogue—a Scotsman. Another patron scoots uncomfortably close, briefly brushing against Margo who yanks her arm away from the unwelcome touch. There’s a queue building behind them, so they’ll have to wait on chatting him up.

 

“Two pints of Strongbow,” Margo says, sliding the money into his hand. She eyes him as he whips around to take two pint glasses in a single hand.  Eliot runs his index finger along the dip of her waist, a silent indication that he sees something he likes. She places a hand on his thigh and squeezes in agreement as the barkeep pours the rich gold cider from the tap. Once the pour is to his satisfaction, the barkeep glances up at Eliot and Margo. Eliot flashes a brilliant smile and Margo shoots him her finest smolder as he hands them their drinks.

 

“Cheers!” They say in unison, raising their glasses to him before making their way back to their table.

 

Setting their glasses down, Margo takes a seat as Eliot pulls his chair around the other side of the table so he can keep an eye on the barkeep as they enjoy their drinks.

 

“Do you think?” Eliot asks, eyes still on the barkeep as he takes a generous sip of his cider. “Fuck that’s good,” he says, surprised, prompting Margo to take a drink from her own glass.

 

Margo hums as the crisp apple flavor hits her tongue, this alone was worth coming all the way out here this afternoon. “If he’s not, we can get him interested,” she says, matter of fact.

 

They watch as the barkeep pours pint after pint, swiftly pulling the tap and releasing, effortlessly filling each glass to an identical level. “I can’t tell if he’s into guys or not,” Eliot says, taking another sip of his drink.

 

Margo slides her hand over and casually interlocks her fingers with Eliot’s. “When has that ever stopped us?” The barkeep glances their way as he passes off another pint. Proud to catch his attention, Margo smirks. “A little dick never hurt anybody,” she says without taking her eyes off of him.

 

The barkeep steals another quick look in their direction. This time it's Eliot's turn to acknowledge him; he opts for a brilliant smile. “That’s not necessarily true” he whispers.

 

“You know what I mean,” she says, not feeling the need to hush her voice along with Eliot.

 

With the rush cleared out and a pub full of satisfied patrons, the barkeep slips out from behind the bar and out of sight. “So, what’s our attack plan?” Eliot asks, bringing his glass to his lips.

 

Margo turns her chair to face Eliot, who leans in close, clearly more attached to being subtle. “For now, just be us, gorgeous and irresistible,” she says with a smirk. “Then we come back when it’s slow and get to work.”

 

Eliot nods in agreement and takes another drink. His brow furrows for a brief moment and then his eyes light up, humming as the thought occurs to him. “Break’s almost over, what do you propose we do once we’re back at Brakebills?” As Eliot sets his pint down, the barkeep re-emerges with a handful of glasses. Eliot leans closer to Margo, but his eyes follow the barkeep around the room, “This definitely feels like a bit of a slow burn.”

 

A wicked smirk spreads across Margo’s face, it doesn’t take long to work out what he’s looking at. “Easy,” she says. She continues to look directly at Eliot; they don’t want to broadcast their interest too loudly.  “We make a portal to drop by and play with Mr. Artisanal Beer over there,” she says a little more quietly now that they’re sitting so close. “I bet we can bag him by the third go. He’ll put up a bit of a fight, but not for too long.”

 

“How modest, Bambi,” Eliot says, taking his eyes off the barkeep to look her directly in the eye. “I vote second try, easy,” He says finishing his pint.

 

Margo narrows her eyes. “Is that a bet?” she asks, cocking an eyebrow; she lives for good competition.

 

Looking over at the bar, Eliot smiles as the barkeep takes yet another glance in their direction as he helps another customer. This is going to be easy. “I’m not the gambling type, but I’m confident in our ability to seduce,” his swift shutdown of a formal bet causes Margo’s face to drop. He feigns pitty with a soft coo, then brings a finger to his chin. A slow, dramatic stroke of the cleft in his chin punctuates the deep hum as he contemplates the situation. “What do I get if I win?”

 

Margo’s lips twitch as she fights back a smile and gestures with her pint glass in the direction of the barkeep before throwing back the rest of her drink. “We get him.”

 

“Touché.” Eliot taps his glass and nods over at the bar, “Do we want another round or do we make our exit now?”

 

The pub is still busier than desired. All the families have cleared out, but there are plenty of patrons drinking and enjoying each other to keep the barkeep busy. “Let’s leave him hanging a bit,” Margo says, blasé. “It’s still busy anyway.”

 

Nodding in agreement, Eliot rises from his seat. He turns to face Margo, deliberately shielding both of them from the barkeep’s gaze. He can feel the eyes on them. A roguish grin spreads across his face as he swings his coat over his shoulders. Margo rises from her own chair, tying her scarf around her neck before slipping into her coat. Once she’s buttoned up, Eliot pulls her into an embrace, swinging them both around so they’re back in the barkeep’s line of sight. Placing a hand on the side of her neck opposite the barkeep, he leans down and places a kiss on her lips, just long enough to be noticeable.

 

Withdrawing from his arms, Margo cocks an eyebrow, “What the fuck was that?” Her voice is low, unclear on Eliot’s goal.

 

“Playing dirty,” he says before look over at the barkeep with a smile. He’s handing a drink off to a patron, but Eliot and Margo definitely notice the smug grin in his face; they will most certainly be coming back.

 

Eliot grabs his umbrella from beneath the table and places a hand around Margo’s waist. As they turn to walk out of the pub, the barkeep calls out to him, the lilt in his voice more pronounced as he talks over the ambient noise. “Leaving so soon, strangers?” His words stop Eliot and Margo in their tracks. “I thought I heard stirrings of a wager earlier,” he states as they turn to face him.

 

Eliot and Margo exchange a quick glance, amusement and intrigue clear on their faces. Just how closely has he been watching them tonight?  “We’re on a tight schedule, but I’m sure we’ll be back before we leave London,” Margo says casually.

 

Reaching into his pocket, Eliot runs his tongue over his bottom lip before he speaks, “Have one on us.” He slips a few pounds onto the countertop. Peeking out between the bills is an embossed business card with their complete details. Margo finds herself grateful that Eliot decided to have them made. She hates to admit it, but it’s a nice touch, classy and not terribly forward. When the barkeep grabs the money, Eliot brushes fingers against his hand. The barkeep cocks his head, but they turn an exit the pub before it has the chance to escalate.

 

Stepping through the door, Eliot opens his umbrella to greet the light rain. Margo slides her fingers between his, gripping the shaft.

“You ever gonna smoke that thing?” She muses as they begin their journey back to the bed and breakfast.

 

“Fuck!”

 

“Jesus, it was just a question,” she says with a roll of her eyes.

 

Eliot laughs softly and pulls her closer. “No, we didn't get his name.”


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Eliot and Margo return to The Ball and Sack to try to get to know the barkeep a little better.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey guys, sorry for the delay on this one. Real shit got fucking crazy and then the finale royally wrecked me. Good news is I have a decent amount of the next chapter written already, I just need to finish it up. Less good news, the finale hit pretty fucking hard, as I'm sure you can understand, so I will have to process some of those feelings through fic. We might take a tiny hiatus from this piece to work on some Devastating Emotional Processing™️. I fully intend to wrap up this fic and work on a few others, I just may not be as quick about it as I have been in the past. 
> 
> I hope this cute little visit provides a much-needed distraction and puts a smile on your face. I love each and every one of you. 
> 
> Special Thanks to [ **Rae** ](https://archiveofourown.org/users/highestkingbambi) for her expert editing work as always. 
> 
> <3

Heavy cigarette smoke leaves Eliot’s lips. The bright springtime sunlight gives the wisps an otherworldly glow as he rests his head in Margo’s lap. A cool breeze rustles the leaves and flutters the blooms in the colorful garden of the bed and breakfast. Eliot takes another drag, allowing his eyes to fall closed as Margo runs her fingers along his scalp. As he exhales, Margo plucks the cigarette from his finger and takes a deep drag before bringing her arm around the back of the chaise longue. 

 

“Get your own,” Eliot whines as he reaches for the cigarette. 

 

Margo rolls her eyes, laughing softly. “I won’t smoke a whole one,” she says, taking a spitefully long drag before placing the cigarette back between Eliot’s fingers. She exhales the smoke inches away from Eliot’s face. “Why are we smoking these when you have a perfectly fucking good pipe upstairs?” 

 

“I told you, Ombrello Fumabile is a one of a kind collector’s item. I doubt I’ll ever smoke it,” 

 

“Then why’d the fuck you bring an ounce of weed and some loose tobacco?” she asks, the affection in her voice failing to masquerade as accusation. 

 

“If I ever did decide to smoke it, I’d want the moment to be perfect. Who’s to say that moment can’t be on this trip?” 

 

Margo laughs, playfully rolling her eyes. She won’t push the subject, but she’s hopeful they can christen it before they return home.  “Tonight,” she says, changing the subject. “Do we want to hit The O2 or Chinatown?” As Eliot takes a drag, he groans; the thought of being one of  _ those people _ is exhausting. “We have to do  _ something _ touristy before we leave,” her lip pouts and her eyes well with crocodile tears as she looks down at him. 

 

An exasperated sigh from Eliot releases more smoke into the air, “I  _ guess _ we can climb The O2 tonight, if we must.” 

 

“It’ll be fun! We don’t have to tell anyone we did any tourist shit while we were here,” she says, bringing her lips to his forehead in a gentle kiss. 

 

As Margo reaches for the cigarette, her phone buzzes in her pocket. The vibration rattles behind Eliot’s ear, causing him to jump up from her lap. The intensity of the sensation almost makes him miss the vibration in his own pocket. 

 

Margo slides her phone from her pocket and unlocks the screen. “Looks like we got a message from our barkeep!” 

 

“It’d be a shame if you left the city without having a proper taste of London. Why don’t you pop by the pub tonight?” she reads aloud as she strokes Eliot behind his ear, soothing his melodramatic wound. 

 

The languid contentment on Eliot’s face ignites into a hungry smile. “I bet he’s spent the last few days deciding on the  _ right moment _ to text us.” 

 

“Do we make him beg, or do we get right to the foreplay?”

 

“How about both?”

 

*

 

Stepping through the door of the pub, the loud clank of an old bell announces their presence. The share a confused glance, they definitely don’t remember that happening last time. The sound of the bell pulls the barkeep’s focus away from the pint he’s pouring. A wide smile spreads across his face at the sight of them, but he quickly returns his focus to the pint, careful not to spill. 

 

A cursory glance around the room reveals a much slower evening than their last visit. The once bustling room with an overflowing queue is now a fairly peaceful hangout spot with a few small groups chatting over beer and snacks. Slow enough to get some of the barkeep’s time, busy enough not to have his undivided attention. A perfect starting point. 

 

The barkeep wipes down his station and leans onto the bar top. “Welcome back, strangers,” he says with a smile. His eyes flicker between Eliot and Margo, tongue running over his bottom lip as his pupils dilate. This is going to be fun . Pleased with the obvious effect they’re having on him,  Eliot and Margo exchange a knowing look before taking a seat at the bar. 

 

“So which one of you is Eliot and which one is Margo?” He asks with a wink. 

 

Eliot laughs softly at the joke, sliding a little closer to Margo as she scoffs in playful offense. “Honey, if I look like an Eliot to you, you’re beyond help.” She leans onto the countertop, making sure to push her breasts into her arm enough to accentuate the view of her cleavage. The barkeep opens his mouth to quip back, but Margo inadvertently cuts him off. “Can a girl get a drink in this place or what?” she asks with a wink.

 

The barkeep’s lips twist into a smirk before he speaks. “And here I am thinkin’ you’re here for my roguish charm,” he says with a wink of his own; his, however, is punctuated with a flick of his tongue against his teeth. “What’ll it be?” 

 

Glancing over his shoulder, Margo takes in her possible selections. She glosses over the array of beers and ciders on tap to peer through the forest of intricate handles obscuring the selection of bottled beers. Beside them sit a modest collection of wines and spirits. They’re in a pub, so she can’t get too adventurous, but she isn’t in the mood for a beer tonight. She glanced over the wines again and settles on a choice. “I’ll have a glass of prosecco,” softening her voice to a nearly professional tone.  

 

A flash of surprise lights up the barkeep’s face.  “Switching it up, I see,” he smirks. With a cock of her head, Margo raises an eyebrow; Eliot’s lips fall slightly open in surprise. They didn't think he was paying that much attention. Beneath the table, Eliot slides a hand over Margo’s thigh ,  a point of contact silently communicating his approval. This is going to be easy. “Busy doesn’t mean forgetful,” the barkeep says with a smirk. 

 

The barkeep grabs a glass from behind the bar. Stroking his beard between his thumb and index finger, he surveys his wine selection with a quiet hum. He takes a good, long look at his wine selection as if seeing it for the first time. There is only a single bottle of prosecco in the collection, and it’s easy to spot, but they’re enjoying the ruse. Right when Margo was going to say something snarky, he reaches for the sole bottle of prosecco. Eliot leans forward, resting his chin on his free hand, studying the barkeep’s movements, intrigued. Under the table, Margo slides her hand into the one resting on her thigh. Interlocking their fingers, she catches Eliot’s eye to give him a stern look knowing exactly how hard he’s going to judge the next sixty seconds. With a defiant roll of his eyes, Eliot turns back to the barkeep, to find him laughing at their silent exchange and a glass of prosecco glistening in front of Margo.  How did he miss him pouring that?  Taken aback, Eliot blinks rapidly before allowing a smile to spread across his face. He’s impressed. 

 

“What would you like?” the barkeep asks, face smug and back held straight with pride. 

 

Dropping his hand from his chin, Eliot’s smile curls into a loose smirk. “Your name,” he says, gliding his tongue along his bottom lip. “Now that you know our names, it’s only fair.”  

 

The barkeep slaps his hands square into the center of his chest as if he’s been shot. “You wound me!” he laughs. “Speaking as if I’ve been withholdin’ it from ya.” His hearty laugh faded into a few clicks of his tongue as he shakes his head. “I’m not the ones who rushed out of my pub.” As he speaks, the bell rings and a small group who look like they have a median age of twenty spills into the pub. The barkeep nods upward, acknowledging their presence as they scout a good table.

 

Acutely aware of the fact that they could lose their window, Margo squeezes Eliot’s hand before bringing hers up onto the bar top. “We had a meeting,” she says, leaning even closer, trying to maintain their intimate little bubble for just long enough to get his name.

 

The barkeep waves one of the new patrons over. When he turns back to Eliot and Margo, Eliot has brought his hand back to his chin and Margo is drumming her fingers in the bartop. “Business?” he asks, stalling. A wicked grin creeps into his face as he observes the anticipation worming its way through Eliot and Margo’s body language. 

 

“Unfortunately,” they answer in unison, trying to sound more blasé than anxious. They don’t want to lose his attention before getting his name. He has too much of an advantage; they need to rip the scaled back in their favor. Once they have his name, he can wander off all he wants, but not before. They’re so close. 

 

“So, Stranger, what do we get to call you?” Eliot asks as the barkeep steps away to meet his newest customer. 

“Oliver Baird, barkeep and smartass extraordinaire!” he says, dipping his head in a mock bow before turning his attention to his new guests.   

 

Eliot turns his body to face Margo, tightening their little bubble so it’s just them again. “Smartass indeed,” he laughs beneath his breath.

 

Margo brings the glass of wine to her lips and takes a generous sip. “Not bad,” she says with a shrug, though the way she draws out the last word suggests she’s being kinder than she needs to be. Eliot isn’t entirely sure if she’s referring to the drink or the barkeep’s name. 

 

Intrigued, Eliot slides the glass from her fingers, taking his own sip. His face twists into a grimace and an involuntary shiver rattles through him as if his body is desperate to shake the taste out. After that, he’s even less sure. “I will definitely not be having the prosecco tonight,” he says handing the glass back to Margo. “Or ever.”

 

“What are we going to do with Oliver?” Margo asks, pointing her wine glass toward the barkeep who working through the crowd of freshly legal over-eighteens, pouring pints and calling meal orders to the kitchen. 

 

Lips still contorted into a tight frown, Eliot looks around the bar in pursuit of something,  “God, I need to get this taste out of my mouth.” 

 

Rolling her eyes, Margo grabs his face, turning it back to her. “Stop being dramatic. Oliver,” she says with a snap. 

 

“He seems to like to play games,” his shrug is meant to convey ambivalence, but the smile tugging at his lips betrays him. Margo threads her fingers into his and flashes a reassuring smile. The thrill of the challenge is truly electrifying, there’s no need to be bashful about it.  Urging Eliot to continue his thought, Margo rolls her hand through the air and raises a  skeptical eyebrow before taking another sip from her glass. 

 

It’s Eliot’s turn to roll his eyes, the progression of thought should be obvious, “We let him play.” 

 

“You never answered my question,” Oliver’s voice is right by Eliot’s ear, causing him to jump; he curses himself for not paying enough attention to Oliver’s whereabouts. Margo tried to stifle her laugh and brings her glass to her lips. 

 

Making his way behind the bar, Oliver looks at Margo, crossing his eyes and sticking his tongue out to playfully mock Eliot. “What would you like?” Oliver asks a second time. Eliot's eyebrows knit tight together, he hasn’t given much thought to a drink order; he has something far more delicious on his mind. “From the bar that is,” Oliver quickly amends. “Full service isn’t until after hours,” the wink he gives earns an approving ‘ooh’ from Margo. 

 

Bringing his index finger to his chin, Eliot hums, pretending to ponder his choices; the drink doesn’t matter as long as they can hold Oliver’s attention. “What do you recommend?” Eliot asks, leaning in close. 

 

Oliver leans onto the bar top in front of Eliot, bringing them the closest together they’ve been so far. “Beer doesn’t seem quite your taste,” he guesses. He places his hand next to Eliot’s on the bar top nearly close enough to touch—too close to have been an accident. Eliot extends his little finger to try to make contact, but Oliver quickly moves his hand as he begins to speak. 

 

“Maybe you’re a scotch man,” Oliver says, turning to grab an empty tumbler for Eliot. Margo laughs so hard she nearly spits out her drink. 

 

Eliot fights through a strained laugh as he looks to Margo who is leaning onto the bar top, circling her finger along the rim of her half-empty wine glass. Oliver turns his back to glance over his modest selection of spirits. 

 

While Oliver is occupied, Margo twists around to face Eliot. “How do you take your liquor, Mr. Scotch Man?” Margo whispers in a voice that is just as patronizing as it is sultry, but casual listeners might miss the mocking beneath the purr. 

 

Narrowing his eyes at Margo, Eliot leans in close to speak next to her ear. “ Anyway he’ll give it to me ,” he  shrugs.  A quick look over at Oliver and he’s making his way back to their position at the bar, ornately carved glass bottle of amber liquid in hand. Eliot places a hand on Margo’s knee, hoping the stroke of his fingers will signal her to what he’s about to do. Determined to give the illusion that they’re more into each other than they are Oliver, Eliot lets his eyes fall away from Oliver and softly nips at Margo’s earlobe. Taking his cue, Margo laughs deep in her throat, pushing him away to feign disapproval of the public display. 

“He’s coming,” she stage-whispers entirely for show. 

 

“Always whispering you two,” Oliver says with a scolding click of his tongue. “And don’t think I missed your little display. Keep that up and I might have to kick you out of my pub,” he teases as she finally sets the glass down in front of Eliot. 

 

Laughing, Margo makes a show out of scooting away from Eliot. The stool scrapes across the floor with a noise that momentarily hushes even their noisy intruders. Once she’s done, she allows her hand to linger on Eliot’s arm before bringing it slowly to the bartop. Eliot sigh, voice full of affection for Margo and nods at Oliver, jokingly asking for his approval. Changing the subject, Eliot directs the focus to the empty glass before him,  “What’s the best way to drink scotch?”

 

A wide smile spreads across Oliver’s face. Eliot and Margo can’t help but focus on the way his mustache catches light as his lips move to reveal his brilliantly white teeth. “What’s the best way to do anything?” Oliver pauses, a single eyebrow raised as he anxiously awaits a little audience participation. When they refuse to bite, instead leaning further forward--arms touching—hanging on his every word, he continues,  “The way you like it.” The faint exasperation in his voice suggests the answer should’ve been obvious. Milking the moment, Oliver rests his arms on the bartop to drop his head into his hands. Eliot and Margo very well may have found someone who rivals their passion for dramatics. 

 

Seizing the moment of opportunity, Eliot slides his harm arm against Oliver’s, testing the waters. “So with a little help from you, then,” he says, and when Oliver doesn’t recoil from the touch, Eliot lightly traces a small circle on the back of Oliver’s hand then withdraws. They’re only just starting; he doesn’t want to come on too strong just yet.  

 

Something wicked glints behind Oliver’s eyes, but he doesn’t acknowledge the contact. Pushing himself off the counter, he points at Eliot. “Are you at all familiar with scotch?” he asks.

 

Eliot considers lying, but thinks better of it, settling instead for an indirect response.  “ I’ve had a few glasses in my lifetime,”

 

“So, no, then?” Oliver says with a nod, not bothering to suppress his smile at Eliot’s obvious posturing. He returns the bottle to the shelf, instead reaching for a much simpler one with a somewhat industrial looking label housing a pale spirit. The bottle is nearly empty and they can’t help but wonder how many he has taken on this little tour. 

 

Wine glass pressed to her lips, Margo chuckles to herself. Once she has her composure, she sets the glass down, leaning back onto the bartop. “Can you even identify a bottle of scotch, El?” she asks, matter of fact, earning a scoff out of Eliot. 

 

Chuckling at their display, Oliver tips the bottle back, as if he’s a sommelier displaying an excellent vintage of wine. The name is a word neither of them can pronounce, though Margo silently scolds herself for not being able to. “Proud man; you and scotch will get on well,” he says with a laugh. “Lucky for you, there are few things I am more familiar with than scotch, and I’m feeling generous enough to teach you everything I know.” 

 

“Are these my training wheels?” Eliot asks. “You swapped the bottles when I said wasn’t incredibly familiar.”

 

“Think of it more like a stepping stone,” Oliver says.  “Walk first;  we can  run later. I promise there’s no rush.” 

 

Oliver repositions the glass on the counter so that it is directly in front of Eliot. In this exact spot, it catches the light, gorgeously reflecting it onto the bartop. Margo gives a faint ‘oooh’ and Oliver’s face crinkles as if he can’t tell if he’s being patronized. Shaking it off, he reaches beneath the bar to produce two perfectly square cubes of ice. “I’m clean, I promise, but I can produce my test results if you like,” he says with a smirk as he drops the cubes into the glass with a crisp ‘clink’ punctuating the statement with a wiggle of his fingers. “Now—“

  
  


“Oí!” One of the barely-legals calls from across the bar as Oliver grabs the bottle of whiskey. 

 

“Hold yer horses!” He calls back, his brogue a bit heavier in his raised voice. “Kids, yeah?” he says with a playful roll of the eyes before pouring a scant amount of the pale scotch into Eliot’s glass.

 

Eliot nods and Margo rolls her eyes in agreement despite still being this side of twenty-five. 

 

With a firm pat of the countertop, Oliver nods down at the glass. “Let that sit while I handle those bampots.”

 

Once Oliver is out of earshot, Eliot leans into Margo, keeping his voice low. “You’re a little quiet tonight, Bambi.” 

 

Eyeing Oliver as he pours another round for the little fucks who interrupted them, Margo laughs deep in her throat, full of cruel amusement. “Trust me, El, you don’t want my internal monologue.” She brings her wine glass to her lips and drains the final contents before setting it down. The faint click of the glass hitting the wood countertop the perfect punctuation to her snarky response.  

 

Oliver wraps up with the mob of barely legals and makes his way back over to their side of the bar. “You can follow directions, good on you!” Oliver says, facetiously gesturing an open hand at the untouched glass of scotch before Eliot. 

 

Eliot returns the gesture, with an overly courteous nod. “Who am I to ignore the guidance of an expert?”

 

Margo nearly snorts as she fights the laugh building in the chest. Eliot cuts his gaze over to her, and she raises an eyebrow as if to say, ‘what did I tell you?’. 

 

“Smart man,” “Now, a proper dram is roughly three and a half milliletres,” he says, tapping the table next to the glass. “But usually when you order a dram of any whiskey, you’ll get a full shot” Oliver produces a second and pours to illustrate the difference; the pale gold in Oliver’s glass dwarfs the delicate taste in the glass in front of  Eliot. 

 

Picking the glass up from the bartop, Oliver brings it into the light as if inspecting the contents for some hidden quality. “The nose on this one will be much fuller without the ice shutting down some of the aromas,” he says, bring the glass just shy of Eliot’s chin, urging him to inhale with a rise and fall of his free hand before bringing it to Margo for her to do the same. 

 

“Oh wow,” Margo says in that half interested voice she uses when she’s working a man. 

 

Eliot resists the urge to roll his eyes. “Truly lovely,” he says, making sure his words sound more genuine than Margo’s. All things considered, he’s actually enjoying the experience. “I expected it to be much harsher.” 

 

The hearty laugh from Oliver should probably make Eliot feel self conscious, but he finds himself growing more endeared instead. “Nah, we’ll save burning the hairs out your nose for well down the line,” Oliver responds, in a tone so nonchalant, they almost aren’t sure he is joking.

“Go on and have a taste,” Oliver says, nodding at the glass in front of Eliot. 

 

“We’ve been waiting for those words all night,” Margo says openly leering at Oliver just in case he really thinks she is here for the whiskey. A soft blush starts to warm Oliver’s skin, rapidly spreading from his face to his neck. They didn’t take him for the type to get flustered. This just got a lot more interesting. 

 

As Eliot takes a small sip of the scotch, he tries not to laugh. The taste is smooth on his tongue, rich flavors of toasted nuts and something almost sweet that he can’t place. He pleasantly surprised by the warmth that fills his chest once he swallows. Nothing like the angry burn he was expecting. He looks at Oliver and finds him studying him carefully. Logically, he knows he is waiting to see how he feels about the drink, but a part of him hopes he’s being checked out just as hard as they’ve been eyeing him. 

 

Taking a deep breath, Oliver regains his composure. “What do you think?” 

 

Eliot takes a deep breath, closing his eyes and allowing himself to really appreciate the moment before responding. “Impressively smooth, and, dare I say, cozy?” he says.  Oliver beams, clearly pleased at the having brought one over to the dark side. “Your turn, Bambi,” he says, passing the glass into her hands. If they weren’t paying attention, they wouldn’t notice the small amount of liquid still in it. 

 

Margo empties the glass into her mouth. The smooth body of the spirit is equally surprising to her as it was to Eliot, but she takes this opportunity to really turn up the dramatics with a sensual moan. “I get what you mean by cozy,” she says as if Oliver isn’t in the room. 

 

“Wasn’t expecting to get both of you on board,” he says, stammering the slightest bit on the end of the statement. 

 

Margo takes the awkward pause on the end of the word ‘you’ as permission to push the envelope further. “I can’t wait to taste—”

 

“ —more of your selection,” Eliot finishes, partially to play up the whole ‘look at how in tune with each other we are’ bit, partially because he isn’t entirely sure what might come next. Margo can be much less tactful than he would prefer.

 

Margo shoots a glare at Eliot, pouting a little at being deprived of another opportunity to see that adorable blush claim Oliver’s face.

 

“Aye Ollie!!” another one of the rowdy young patrons call out to Oliver who groans. 

 

“We should probably get going anyway,” Eliot says, pointing to the clock hanging in the far corner of the pub.  “How much for the dram?” He reaches into his breast pocket for his wallet.

 

Oliver shakes his head, smiling. “I got this one,” he says. “A gift for a gift.” Presumably, in reference to the generous tip they left on their previous visit, but they can’t be sure. As Oliver leaves to tend to his thirsty customers, they gather their belongings. Eliot takes extra care to inspect his specialty umbrella for any scuffs or damage before taking it by the handle and walking it with him like a cane. 

 

They begin to make their exit, passing by the obnoxious group of young twenty-somethings along the way.  “Hey!” Margo barks once they get close. “You treat that man with some goddamn respect.” She emphasizes her words with a firm point in Oliver’s direction. Before they have the chance to get loud in response, they slip through the door, the bell ringing in their wake. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you enjoyed the chapter, please leave a comment. I know I could definitely use a pick me up right now.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The third visit to the pub sees everyone getting a little more playful.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Long time, no see. 
> 
> I have been going through it, guys. Everything has been so overwhelming and exhausting and I really needed to take a break from fandom. I’m trying to come back and get back into the swing of my writing. I’ve missed you guys and this fic. I hope this chapter was worth the wait. 
> 
> Huge thanks to Viví for giving it a good edit for me. I didn’t edit this chapter as extensively because I needed to get it out here, but hopefully it’s still a good time.

The faint thud of fabric bumping against fabric is growing louder as Eliot’s search for the perfect finishing touch builds to a near feverish pace. Margo sighs, lying on her back, propped up on her elbows, ankles crossed as she watches him stumble about the room. She’s been ready for an hour. 

 

He turns around, shirt only half buttoned, a tie loosely dangling from each hand. “Which one?”

“Dark,” she says casually. “You’re taking too long.”

 

“You would,” he says with a roll of his eyes before tossing the dark blue tie across the room. “Wanna drop in on Oliver?” With a flick of his wrist, he whips the light blue tie around his neck. 

 

Margo perks up at the mention of Oliver, a sultry grin quickly claiming her face. “I dunno, is a few weeks long enough to really start missing us?” she teases, pushing herself up from the bed to make her way in front of Eliot. 

 

Eliot knots the tie around itself in intricate twists that only someone with years of practice could achieve so swiftly. “Fuck, has it been that long?” 

 

Margo slips her fingers around the knot at Eliot’s neck, adjusting it slightly before cupping his face for a brief moment. “It’s been nearly a month,” she says, matter of fact. “You’d know that if you were sober longer than it takes to hit the next bump,” her voice is playful, but she can feel the worry behind her eyes. “Do you think the pub is busy right now?” she changes the subject before it has the chance to become a moment. 

 

Eliot steals a quick glance at the watch on his right wrist; it’s about three thirty. “ It’s a Tuesday night,” he shrugs. “Not exactly peak pub time, but probably busy enough to make our entrance go unnoticed.” 

 

Making her way over to the closet door, Margo slips her feet into a pair of Louboutin heels; the red sole is exactly the subtle pop of color she needs to pair with her garnet jewelry. “I think we’ve blueballed him long enough to deserve a visit,” she says, grabbing the knob of the  closet door. 

 

Swinging the door open reveals an impossibly huge closet that definitely wasn’t there when she moved in. The  colorful array of garments is nothing short of red carpet worthy. Eliot chuckles, astonished, as if he doesn’t see it every day. 

 

Eliot crosses the room in a single stride. He runs his fingers along the rich mix of fabrics, appreciating them before stepping further in. Slipping his hand between two pieces, he pushes them apart, careful not to get the horrid grating sound of metal on metal. With the wall at the back of the closet exposed, he reflexively brings his hand to his breast pocket, searching for something to write with. Margo laughs when he comes up empty and grabs a piece of chalk from a nearby dresser before joining him in the closet. She kicks a few boxes of shoes out of the way as if most them weren’t worth several hundred dollars. Chalk in hand, she slips beneath Eliot’s arm that’s still parting the clothes and squats to the floor. She drags the chalk against the drywall and slowly rises to her feet. Looking behind her, she sizes Eliot up to see how tall she needs to make the door. When the required dimensions of the door go beyond her reach, she steps into her toes, straining her arm to get it tall enough. Eliot wraps his fingers gently around her wrist, lingering a moment before sliding up her hand and relieving her of the chalk. 

 

“Allow me,” he says, continuing her vertical line up a few inches before marking a sharp turn to crest the top boundary of the doorway. 

 

Margo wraps her arms across her chest as she watches him effortlessly the spots well beyond her reach. “What would I do without you?” She asks, leaning into a playful bitterness that has become routine in moments such as this. 

 

Laughing, Eliot turns another sharp corner, dragging the chalk back down toward Margo. “Honestly, without me you wouldn’t need to draw such tall portals,” he says, passing the chalk back to her. She continues the line down the wall and when she reaches the bottom, she makes her own sharp turn and returns the line to where she began. 

 

She places a hand on the wall, as if feeling out the perfect spot. Once she’s satisfied, she draws an intricate sigil of hard lines and geometric shapes. Glancing at Eliot to give him the signal, they simultaneously slide their right index finger along their left hand, twisting their fingers as they create a series of geometric shapes matching the sigil. The chalk outline on the wall begins to glow with a faint shimmer. Eliot and Margo recite the incantation, chanting flatly in a language neither of them knew before beginning at Brakebills. The light begins to expand off the chalk line, slowly filling in the interior of the hand drawn doorway.

 

“London, here we come,” Eliot says, look down at Margo with a smile. The light in the doorway begins to flicker and desove like an old television coming into focus. The warm amber light and aged wooden walls of the pub appear beyond the chalk outline. Margo reaches for Eliot’s hand, interlocking their fingers and they step through the doorway. On the other side, they step out of what would be the door to the men’s room were it not for their portal temporality occupying the slot. Once they’re both over the threshold, they chant a second incantation watch as the the view to Margo’s bedroom fizzles out, taking the  light with it. 

 

The pub is quiet tonight, but the warm light and the soft clink of glass suggests it’s still open. Open or not, it’s almost eerie without the buzz of a large crowd. They pause by the door, listening to the ambient sound. The thud and pour of the tap is quickly accompanied by Oliver’s voice. They sigh, releasing a little tension.

 

Bringing his hand to his chin, Eliot lightly traces his bottom lip with his forefinger as he thinks. “What’s our angle?” Eliot asks in a low whisper. “I was counting on a little more crowd cover to hide the fact that we didn’t use the front door.”

 

“Let's just go for it,” Margo says, matching his volume. “If he questions it, we brush it off, easy.”

 

“Fair enough,” he says, grabbing Margo’s hand as they step around the corner.

 

They interlock arms and begin holding court with no one in particular, as if their presence should be a given for everyone in the room. Oliver glances up from the tap, his eyes land on them, but quickly return to the task at hand. When it clicks, he shakes his head as if rattling his thoughts loose and looks back up. Once he registers their faces, he beams, stumbling back in surprise. “Well shit!” he says. “If it isn’t the two newest members of the traveling scotch club.” He glances from their faces to corner they just appeared from. Eliot’s hand tenses around Margo’s; she gives him a firm squeeze, urging him to relax. There is no reason for him to reach any other conclusion but simply not paying enough attention. Workflow and hyperfocus can do that to you. “I figured you’d left London by now,” Oliver says, taking the one last pointed glance at the corner before moving on. Eliot tenses again, but Margo steps out of his grasp, leaving him reaching her as she approaches Oliver. 

 

“We’re uh,” Eliot stammers, not his smoothest stalling tactic.

 

Margo laughs, way more calm and collected than Eliot. “We left right after our last visit, but we couldn’t stay away,” Margo says, perching her arms against the bar.

  
  


“Yuptae?” Oliver asks with a smile.  He mirrors Margo and perched onto the bar, careful not to get too close, but his eyes are lit with desire.

 

Eliot presses his tongue into his cheek and cocks his head,  confused. Margo narrows her eyes, carefully taking in Eliot’s face as she watches him try to work it out; she can’t help but chuckle.  Oliver laughs to himself and mutters what sounds like, “Americans” under his breath. Right as Margo’s face starts to twist into a scowl, Eliot places a hand on her thigh to calm her this time. Oliver flashes a brilliant smile that is more than enough to soothe Eliot; Margo, however, is unimpressed. He hasn’t earned this level of playfulness just yet. Leaning in close, Oliver repeats himself, “What are you up to?” he asks again, slowly.

 

Nodding to himself at his misunderstanding, Eliot looks up at Oliver with an apologetic smile. “Found ourselves in need of a good,  _ stiff _ drink,” he inches a little closer at word, emphasizing it to the point of innuendo. 

 

A roguish smile snakes across Oliver’s face. “That reminds me,” he says, shooting his gaze over to Margo. “A little limerick I wrote for this humble establishment!” 

 

Eliot and Margo exchange a glance, they don’t know if they should laugh or be impressed. Limericks aren’t exactly peak seduction technique, but the proud smile on Oliver’s lips is truly endearing. 

 

“ Twas a pub called The Ball and Sack,” Eliot and Margo share a quick glance, their lips twitching as they try not to laugh at what is clearly the beginning of some bullshit. “With Libations addicting as crack,” Oliver continues.   
“Well, the food’s just okay, and the staff might be gay, but the customers always come back!” Oliver beams from ear to ear, clearly proud of his little performance. Eliot humors him with a golf clap. 

 

“I knew you liked—” Before Margo can finish her statement, Eliot elbows her arm. 

 

“Margo,” he warns softly. 

 

Margo rolls her eyes, crossing her arms over her chest, “I was gonna say ‘us’.”

 

A hearty laugh escapes Oliver. “You’re not wrong on either count,” he smirks, taking a moment to openly leer at them both for the first time. “I’m a man of varied tastes to say the least,” he says with a wink. 

 

Another glance flickers between Eliot and Margo, their fingers interlocking in the bartop. They squeeze each other’s hands and nod, trying their best to contain their excitement. This is going to be easier than they thought. 

 

“So,” Eliot begins, popping his cufflinks loose. “What is the next stop on the scotch tour?” A bright smile spreads across Oliver’s lips, when it reaches his eyes, Eliot can’t help but be endeared—even Margo cracks a small smile in response. This guy has no idea how cute he can be. 

 

“I started you on something very mild, next stop is what you’re likely going to find in most bars,” As Oliver speaks, Eliot slowly begins to roll his sleeves up, revealing his forearms. Oliver’s eyes drift down every so often, obviously taking note, but trying not to be  openly lecherous . 

 

Oliver turns to the tiny collection of spirits behind the bar. He slowly runs a single finger along the glass bottles of carrying heights and colors before settling on one in particular. His finger lightly traces the embodiment below the neck of the bottle before wrapping around it to bring it into the bar top. When the warm light hits the bottle, the amber liquid behind the green glass glow with a color that is reminiscent of a bottle of cheap olive oil. Eliot doesn’t know what sort of flavors to expect. 

 

As he ponders the bottle before him, a clean glass is placed on the bar. “Glenfiddich Twelve,” Oliver announces with a proud smile. “Baby’s first single malt,” he says with a hearty laugh as he pours just enough of the liquid amber into the glass to cover the bottom. Reaching behind the bar, he produces an intricate glass tube that resembles an expensive fountain pen. Dipping it into a glass of what appears to water, Oliver rolls his thumb over the bulb at the opposite end. The subtle movement must cover a whole in the glass, creating a light vacuum, because the glass shaft fills with water. Withdrawing from tube from the larger vessel, Oliver brings it to the glass of whiskey and rolls his thumb back to its original position. “To open up some of the more subtle complexities,” as he speaks the words, delicate drops of water fall into the glass. 

 

With a soft gesture of his hand, Oliver offers the glass to Eliot.  With a nod of gratitude, Eliot takes a moment to admire the subtle differences from his last dram. Already, this one appears to be much richer in color. He picks up the glass and brings it just shy of his chin. On the nose, the scotch is a bit bright with a touch of something Eliot is tempted to describe as ‘creamy.’

 

“Impressions?” Oliver’s words pull him out of his thoughts. 

 

“My palette isn’t nearly refined enough to—”

 

“Just tell me what you’re experiencing,” Oliver says, placing his hand in the bartop. If he weren’t so goddamn smug all the time, it would come across as reassuring. “No expectations,” he runs his hand along the surface of the bar, stroking soft circles they way you would when consoling someone. “You’re a man of discerning tastes, who clearly knows his way about a bottle of liquor.” 

 

The statement, while sounding perfectly inoffensive, earns a pointed laugh out of Margo. Eliot cuts her a glare, only to be met with her big doe eyes brimming with affection. He rolls his own eyes and turns his attention back to Oliver as he takes his first sip. 

 

Eliot closes his eyes and allows himself a slow, deep inhale. This one is a little bit sharper on his tongue than he remembers the last one being, but the flavor is rich and enticing. He hums softly as he processes the experience. Every time he thinks he knows what this scotch is about, something sneaks in and surprises him. “This one is a bit more spirited than the first one,” he begins, hesitant. 

 

“See, it’s not hard,” Oliver day’s with smirk. He folds his arms over his chest, the movement sliding his sleeves up further. The dark, intricate tattoos on his forearms bring Eliot’s attention back to his original goal. A wicked grin spreads across his face and he opens his mouth to make a suggestive comment. 

 

“Don’t start,” Oliver warns, cutting a scolding glare that quickly melts into a roguish smile. Bastard. Eliot can’t help but smile back. “Keep going,” Oliver insists, gesturing at the tumbler of scotch. 

 

Eliot raises a curious eyebrow and leans in a little closer. “Which one is it?” he asks with a playful laugh, but quickly returns to the task at hand. 

 

“Focus,” Oliver scolds, returning his arms to their position folded across his chest. 

 

Margo lightly slaps the bar and laughs, “He’s focused all right,” she says with a smirk. 

 

Trying not to laugh at Margo’s comment, Eliot raises the glass up just high enough that it catches a glint of the dim pub lighting. That color truly is incredible. Taking another sip, Eliot lets his eyes fall closed again as the amber spirit swirls over his tongue. “Do I detect,” he pauses, allowing himself one more taste before he commits to the words. “Fruit?” 

 

Oliver’s eyes light up and his lips spread wide in glee. “Can you tell me what kind of fruit?” he asks. Eliot figures he must be on the right track. 

“Now  _ that _ I’m less sure of,” he says, taking a moment to nose the scotch once more. 

 

Oliver watches closely, absentminded running his tongue over his bottom lip as Eliot takes another sip. Taking his attention off Oliver, Eliot scrunches his brow, physically try to will himself to pick up on the flavor nuances.

 

“No worries,” Oliver says, finally putting him out of his misery. “You gave it a good go.” The smile on Oliver’s face is surprisingly both genuine and encouraging, but that doesn’t stop him from waiting a few moments before telling him the answer. Eliot hates being watched when he’s stressing, but he tries to keep his face even as Oliver gives him an appraising glance. Margo’s fingers slide their way back between Eliot’s and she strokes his hand with her thumb to comfort him. “Pear is what you’re tasting,” Oliver finally says after what feels like a lifetime. 

 

Eliot hums softly as he considers the words, taking another sip to see if he can pick up on those flavor notes now that he knows what to look for. “Interesting,” he says with a nod. 

 

“Don’t beat yourself up in there,” he taps his first two fingers lightly against Eliot’s forehead, earning a pout from Eliot, and a sharp glare from Margo. “Oh, I’m sorry, would you like a taste?” he asks with a devious grin.

 

Margo laughs low in her throat and leans forward onto the bar. “What do you think we’re doing here?” Her tone is sultry but sharp, carefully toeing the line of suggestive and sarcastic, an art she has mastered. 

 

Oliver shrugs, rolling his eyes dramatically. He reaches  for a second tumbler and pours her a healthy serving. Margo releases Eliot hand to receive the glass, and Oliver slides it into her grip. 

 

Bringing the glass to her lips, Margo meets Oliver’s gaze and gives him a smug smile. She drains the contents of the glass in a single go, setting the tumbler upside down with a loud ‘click’ as it hits the wood countertop. “Surprisingly smooth, but not what I came here for tonight,” she shrugs. She’s not sure who is more shocked.

 

Oliver beans at her, his arousal clear in his eyes. The smile that spreads across his lips is less smooth than the others, bordering on dopey. Margo shoots a quick glance at Eliot who nods, acknowledging Oliver’s reaction. “And what did you come here for?” Oliver says, trying to play it cool but he’s definitely a little flustered by Margo. 

 

“If you don’t know the answer by now,” she trails off with a smirk, making a point to dance her fingers first along Eliot’s arm and then over to Oliver’s, “But I could go for a Guinness.” 

 

Another bright smile lights up Oliver’s face, he rakes his teeth over his bottom lip and skips over to grab a pint glass. 

 

 “Calm down, bar boy. I don’t need you to jizz all over the place for the second time this evening,” Margo’s tone is nearly harsh, so she winks to guarantee he knows she’s toying with him. 

 

A playful roll of Oliver’s eyes let’s them know that he gets it. He smiles and reaches for a second pint glass. “ You want one too ?” He asks, pointing the glass at Eliot. 

 

Eliot leans onto the bar, and tries not to let it show how disappointed he is that Oliver is a few steps out of his reach. This would have been the perfect moment to ‘accidentally’ graze his arms. “What she came here for or the Guinness?”

 

“The Guinness,” he sighs, though he’s definitely more hot and bothered than he is exasperated. A tiny smile rugs at his lips, despite his better judgement. Margo slides into the bar and laces her fingers through Eliot’s. They share a glance; this boy is so easy. 

 

Turning his focus back to Oliver, Eliot smiles softly, trying to turn down the playfully predatory vibes. “I already have a drink,” he says, tracing his finger along the rim of his whiskey glass. 

 

“That wasn’t the question,” Oliver says, raising an eyebrow. 

 

“No, thank you,” he says with a shrug. “Margo’s the beer drinker; Guinness is a bit much for me.” 

 

Shaking his head in shock, Oliver’s hand connects with his chest as if he’s been physically wounded, “ Bollocks ,” he laughs. Guinness is for everyone.” 

 

“If you say so,” Eliot says with a smile. 

 

“So you’ll have one then? Perfect!” He turns to grab another pint glass before Eliot has the chance to object. Margo laughs, making no effort to hide her amusement at Eliot’s misfortune. She narrows her eyes, silently challenging him to keep up with her.

 

Oliver brings the first glass beneath the spout at a steep angle and opens the tap. A dark brown draught pours from the spout, but as it accumulated in the glass, it appears almost frothy, the color of a mug of coffee after adding a healthy serving of cream. As it the glass fills, Oliver slowly tips the glass back to and upright position, shutting the tap off, leaving just enough room at the top of the glass for what is about to take place. 

 

“Unlike most draughts,” he begins with a smile. “Guinness is appreciated for its particularly creamy head,” as he says the words, Oliver sets the glass on the bar top in front of Margo, he holds out a single finger, urging her to wait a moment. letting the thick foam settle on top of the beer. 

 

“We have that in common,” Margo deadpans.

 

Taken aback, Eliot chokes on his  drink . “Margo,” he sighs, exasperated. 

 

“What!?” she laughs. She turns to face Eliot, wiping a little spilled  scotch from his chin with her thumb. “Tell me I’m wrong.” As Eliot snaps a handkerchief out of his pocket and blots his chin clean, Margo makes eye contact with Oliver. “He can’t,” she says, smug.

 

“You two are...” he shakes his head, trying to stifle a laugh.

 

“Go on,” Margo urges. She leans back onto the bar top, this time making sure she pushes her breasts forward so he can help but look. “Tell us what we are.” 

 

That cute little blush from before starts to creep its way up Oliver’s neck. He brings a hand to the back of his neck, rubbing softly as if to ease the blush away, as he turns his head to avert her gaze. He catches a glimpse of something that makes his face drop. “Shit,” he says softly. Eliot and Margo look to each other in confusion. You've gone an’ missed it.” He gestures a defeated hand toward the pint of Guinness resting on the bar. The once cloudy, light brown beverage is now deep brown, nearly black in the low lighting, with a thick off-white foam resting on top. He props his elbows on the bar and drops his head into his hands. “Part of the experience is watching it settle,” he says with a heavy sigh. “It’s pure dead brilliant,” his brogue is a little heavier on these words. 

 

“El’s having one, so you get another chance to dazzle me,” Margo says with a smirk. Eliot cuts her a glare. Her smirk grows into a fiery grin, and she brings her hand to his face. “Eliot just  _ loves _ beer,” she makes sure to really draw out the words with a moan. Eliot rolls his eyes and pouts his lips, withdrawing from her touch. 

 

Oliver laughs at the exchange, and quickly grabs the second glass. Eliot can't help but smile. Oliver’s excitement over getting to show off softenś him just enough to not worry about the beer. Oliver brings the glass to the tap just as he did with the first one. The beer pours, mixing the colors into a murky beige just like before. He sets the glass in front of Eliot and holds his hand up, signalling for them to wait. “Just watch!” The genuine awe in his voice is so sweet even Margo cracks a soft smile.

 

The beer in the glass appears to be moving, a soft rippling from the bottom up slowly crawls up the glass. As the movement rises up the glass, it begins to cascade, each new ripple settling at the top in a light froth, turning the color of the liquid as it moves. The bottom of the glass is now the same near black as the pint in Margo’s glass, a far cry from the murky beige it was out of the tap. Once the entire pint is clear and dark, Oliver nods at it with a wide smile. 

 

“Now you may drink,” he says. 

 

Margo takes a generous sip, drinking nearly a third of the glass. She lets her eyes fall closed and moans softly at the taste. As she pulls the glass away from her lips, her tongue slides over her top lip, pulling the creamy froth into her mouth. Oliver watches slack-jawed. Eliot hopes she has him distracted enough to miss him grimace at his own sip. 

 

“So,” Margo reaches across the bar to capture Oliver’s tie between her fingers. His eyes grow wide, but he quickly regains composure and meets her with a smug grin. “What do you do when you leave here?” 

 

“Usually?” he says with a knowing smile. Margo takes another generous sip of her beer as she awaits his answer. “Head home and throw on the Netflix. Why do you ask?” 

 

“Come home with us,” Eliot suggest. He leans his arms onto the bar, simultaneously bringing himself closer to Oliver and sliding his beer over to Margo. 

 

Oliver raises an eyebrow at the proposition, his tongue running over his bottom lip as he considers the offer. While heś distracted, Margo throws back what’s left of her beer and takes a hefty drink of Eliot’s as well. “Where is home for a couple of temptresses like you?”

 

“Not terribly far,” they reply in unison. 

 

Oliver takes a step backwards and props his elbows on the counter behind him. “Not terribly far?” Another eyebrow raise. He eyes flick from Margo, to Eliot, to the half empty pint glass between them. He smiles knowingly but doesn't acknowledge it out loud. 

 

“Not at all,” Eliot says smoothly.

 

Oliver pushes himself off the bar and crosses his arms over his chest. Margo can't help but let her eyes rake over his forearms as his sleeves ride up. Oliver brings his thumb to his lips, suppressing a smile. “And what’s at ‘home’ this time of night?” The way he hangs onto the word ‘home’ is dripping with a skepticism that baffles them both. 

 

“Privacy,” Eliot says, voice dripping with dark honey. 

 

Margo inches close rand captures Oliver’s gaze, “Furniture that can fit all three of us.” 

 

Before Oliver has a moment to react, Eliot adds, “We even have Netflix.” His voice is light and casual, he doesn't want to come on too strong. 

 

“Not that you’ll be watching it for long.”

 

“Wouldn’t want to separate a man from his steady partner.” 

 

Margo and Eliot speak simultaneously. Sharing a look, they break into laughter; they can’t remember the last time they fell out of sync when working a guy. 

 

Oliver has his own hearty chuckle at their misstep, this genuine laughter rumbles through chest, shaking his shoulders. He definitely finds this funnier than they do, but they take it as a sign that their plan is working. While he tries to wrap up his laughter, Margo takes another drink of Eliotś beer. “You didn’t rehearse this one. I must be special!” his says giving them a sarcastic round of applause.

 

“Oh please, Bambi and I haven’t needed to rehearse anything since we first met,” Eliot says, matter of fact. 

 

“If we say you’re special will you come home with us?” Margo asks. Her tone is casual, but she is getting ready to turn up the heat. She isn’t about to let this one get away. 

 

“Not tonight,” Oliver says with dramatic pout that is dangerously close to mocking them. “But that doesn’t mean you can’t keep asking.” 

 

“Good,” she smirks. “I had no intention of stopping.” 

 


End file.
